Cooking for Picasso (11 page)

Ondine didn't think he noticed her as she wheeled her bike past him; yet at the last minute, he beckoned for her to come to him. She parked her bike and crossed the lawn.

“So,” he said as he kept working, “you
can
cook. And now you can tell your friends you've fed three
artistes
in one day. Which of these ‘geniuses' did you like better?” he asked with an ironic smile.

Ondine shrugged, unwilling to choose. Picasso exclaimed, “Certainly not Cocteau! He is talented. But he is the tail of my comet,” he declared. “As for Matisse, well, he's the only other great artist of our time worth talking about, but he's too old for you, right?”

“He was very kind,” Ondine demurred, secretly thrilled to think that such a master painter had expressed the desire to capture all the shades of color in her hair.

Picasso immediately guessed her thoughts. “Hah! How would he like it if I went into his house and announced that I was going to paint
his
cook?” he said belligerently. “Well, perhaps I will!”

With a sudden flourish, like a magician, he handed her the thing he'd been working on. A diamond-shaped construction of tissue-thin paper, attached to a crossbow of delicate branches and sticks, with a long tail of colorful torn rags. The paper, she saw in delight, had a wonderful abstract face painted right on it, just like his earlier canvases she'd seen this week.

“It's a kite!” she exclaimed in utter delight. “You just made a kite! It's
wonderful
!”

Picasso feigned a casual attitude, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, watching her as she swished the kite around the lawn in a little dance of delight. “You like it?” he said. “Then keep it. You'll have to take it into the park to give it a good run,” he added, as if it were a pet. He lit his cigarette, drew on it and exhaled, watching the smoke rings rise up and then disappear.

“Merci beaucoup, Patron!”
Ondine exclaimed breathlessly.

“Au revoir,”
he said calmly as he picked up his newspaper from the front step and then disappeared inside.

O
NDINE WANTED TO
go right out and fly it, but she did not dare make a detour to the park, where someone might steal her mother's pots and pans from her bike. She decided she'd take the kite out early in the morning when fewer people would be there. Back at the café, she slipped upstairs quickly and hid it under her bed, for fear that somehow her father might confiscate it.

As she returned to the kitchen to unload her basket, her mother asked, “So? How did it go?”

“Just fine,” Ondine replied, feeling suddenly weak with fatigue and relief.

Madame Belange said pragmatically, “Perhaps so. We've had no complaints.”

Later that night Ondine indulged in a hot bath and finally allowed herself to relax, although it was hard at first for her nerves to “come down”; she felt like a sports car whose heart was still racing.

But when she climbed into bed and snuggled under the covers, feeling warm and silky inside, she could almost feel the presence of that kite underneath her, its face turned upward as if it could see her in her bed. Drowsily she recalled those lusty male voices singing her name all around the table.

“Mmm,” she murmured, “I wonder which one of them really
is
the best kisser.”

She imagined the three men insisting she test them, and she pictured herself moving from one to the other around the table, just like when she'd served the coffee. She guessed that Picasso would be a brutal kisser, and Cocteau might nibble on her ears like a deer; but Matisse might oh-so-politely lift her onto the table, push aside her skirt and savor her like a dessert, tickling her thighs with his bristly beard as he kissed her, higher and higher until he reached the rose of her sex, his connoisseur's tongue encouraging the kind of yielding that makes a woman even hungrier than a man.

“I can't choose who's best,” she'd have to announce finally. “I want you all.”

“
Alors!
It takes
three
mortal men to satisfy this one sea nymph!” they'd proclaim.

Lying there in the dark, breathing deeply now, Ondine hummed the song that her triumvirate of great artists had sung to her today; and with this lullaby she drifted off to a most satisfying, peaceful sleep. For the first time in many months, she'd gone to bed without thinking about Luc.

T
HE INEVITABLE SPRING RAIN BEGAN
suddenly one day, with a wind blowing so hard that the waiters had to open up the dining room at the Café Paradis and serve lunch indoors instead of on the terrace.

When the Three Wise Men arrived, they immediately began to argue over which country was responsible for sending over the winds of such bad weather—Spain, Russia or Arabia.

But at the back of the house, the weather made no difference; everyone was working hard, as usual. Ondine's mother told her, “Here, take this lunch to your artist up on the hill.”

It had been nearly a week since Ondine was at Picasso's villa, for he'd notified them that he did not need his meals delivered during the long Easter holiday. Ondine assumed he had family visiting, and since he'd been vague about when he might want her to return, she'd worried that he might no longer require her services. Ondine had felt strangely mournful about such a possibility; she'd come to depend on his stimulating aura of energy, and she was eager to get to know her mysterious
Patron
better.

So now she was relieved to hear that she was needed once again. But Ondine peered out the window incredulously. The rain was coming down so hard that the birds had stopped singing, and the cat and dog ran inside looking like two wet rats who'd deserted a sinking ship.

“Bicycle up there in this weather?” she asked in disbelief. “I'll get soaked.” Apparently her mother had no idea of what it was like to pedal a bicycle; she acted as if it were a horse. But Ondine's father did not own a horse or an auto.

Madame Belange continued, “The
Patron
told your father that from now on he wants you to come and cook in his kitchen as you did for his guests, and wait there for him to finish his lunch. Perhaps he finds all the coming and going too distracting. Well, he's willing to pay more to have you cook up there for him. The extra money will surely help!” she said with a small, satisfied smile.

“He wants me to be his personal chef?” Ondine asked, startled at this turn of events.

“He says it would be easier for
you
.” Her mother peered at her suspiciously. “Why should he care about making your life easier? Did you complain to him?” Ondine shook her head vigorously, and her mother concluded, “Well, men are always kind to girls. Wait till you get to be my age,
then
they'll show you their true colors.
Alors!
You're going to have to really learn how to cook now. We'll do as much preparation as we can here. Better wear your blue dress—it looks more
serieuse
. Take your rain slicker with the hood. And keep your mind on your cooking. But if Monsieur Ruiz asks for something different, don't pout or try to be the boss. Just give him whatever he wants!”

“Yes,
Maman,
” Ondine said, thrilled to be treated as an adult, yet a bit scared to be heading into unknown territory.

Madame Belange studied her daughter appraisingly, then chided, “Remember, you're only a cook, not a fairy-tale princess. You've been walking around on a cloud for days—your father and our customers noticed that you've been putting on airs! Don't make fools of us with this
Patron
.”

Ondine was surprised at how deeply her mother's words stung. It was true that, after the lunch party with Picasso's artist friends, she'd felt a lingering joy that gave her a new belief in her destiny. It never occurred to her that she was wearing her hope on her sleeve for the entire town to mock. She'd been out in the park regularly flying the kite Picasso gave her, too; until yesterday when a sudden gust of wind impaled it on a sharp tree branch. She brought it home, intending to mend it. But her mother threw it out, refusing to listen to Ondine's entreaties, saying, “You are no longer a child, and you have no need of broken toys.”

S
O TODAY, AS
Ondine cycled cautiously on the shiny black streets, she was in no mood for any challenging ill weather. She heard the rain pelting against her oilskin hood and jacket, but it wasn't too bad until she pulled away from town and lost the shelter of its buildings. Then there was nothing shielding her from the wind that blew straight in from the sea, driving the storm clouds hard and causing sharp droplets of rain to blow sideways and splash onto her face.

Worse yet, just as Ondine reached the big steep hill to Picasso's villa, the wind suddenly blew back her hood, leaving it dangling uselessly on her back, with her head completely exposed.

“Oh,
la
!” she exclaimed. She kept her head bowed in such concentrated effort that when she made the turn onto Picasso's street she didn't see a rabbit who darted into her path until it was too late.

“
Attention,
stupid rabbit!” Ondine cried out angrily as the foolish thing froze in panic, and then, instead of hopping into the safety of the tall grass beyond the road, rushed headlong into her path.

“Ai!”
Ondine shrieked as she swerved wildly into Picasso's driveway, where the wind had blown open his gate. Her bicycle teetered and then crashed loudly, sending her flying headlong into the gravel.

“Merde!”
she shouted. It was the first time in her life she'd uttered that curse.

Then she remembered the food and she jumped up, retrieving her bicycle. At least the lock on the hamper had kept the meal from spilling out on the ground. Ondine parked her bike, unhooked the hamper and staggered toward the house. And now the roof chose to spill its rainy troubles on her head just as she came near.

The kitchen door squeaked open even before she reached for it, and Picasso stood there looking worried. He must have heard the crash and peered out his window, then come running down the stairs.

A cigarette was still clasped between two fingers. The other hand had fresh paint stains on it.

“Are you all right?” he asked worriedly. “Poor girl, come inside quickly. You are bleeding!”

Ondine's legs were shaking as she climbed the stone steps to the kitchen while he held the door open. He took the heavy hamper from her trembling hands and set it on the kitchen table.

“Sorry!” she gasped.

“Sit down, sit down!” Picasso said in a calm, authoritative tone, pulling out a kitchen chair for her. She took off her wet, hooded slicker, which sent rivers of water to the floor.

As she sank gratefully onto the chair Ondine realized that she had a serious gash on her right knee, from which a rather impressive amount of blood was coursing down her leg. Horrified, she pulled her dress away from the blood so it would not get stained.

“Tiens!”
Picasso exclaimed. He left the room momentarily and she heard him rummaging in a closet. He returned with an ancient-looking first-aid kit that the landlord had probably left. From this Picasso took a bottle of disinfectant, a square of gauze and wads of cotton, and laid them on the table.

Ondine, embarrassed but fascinated, watched mutely as he pulled up another chair and sat on it, then very gently picked up her leg and put it in his lap. Her skirt was still hiked up but she did not want to draw attention to it by tugging on it. Now he reached for a cotton wad, opened the bottle and doused it. There was a strong odor of disinfectant.

“Aaah!” Ondine could not help gasping as he held the cotton against the wound.

“It hurts, doesn't it?” he said, smiling with satisfaction. “It has to hurt to do good. Hold it there and press hard to stop the bleeding.” His attitude was more businesslike than sympathetic. She did as he said, determined to show him how brave she was despite the pain. He reached for a thin tea towel, held one end of it in his teeth, and, with a single swift gesture, tore it into two long, narrower strips.

Ondine was impressed by this tooth-and-claw prowess. He deposited the torn strips into her lap, then told her to remove the disinfectant wad so he could place the square patch of sterile gauze there.

“Hold that firmly,” he instructed, and he wound the strips of torn tea towel around and around her leg so that they would keep the gauze in place. He tied the ends securely, then, done, he gave her thigh a brisk slap of satisfaction.

Ondine felt a tide of warmth surging in her flesh, starting from the spot where his big hands were holding her leg, as if his touch had made her blood flow right back into her veins, hot and healthy; but now the blood was rushing on heedlessly to that mysterious place between her legs which girls were supposed to ignore, until their wedding day when it became the property of their husbands. The only man who'd touched her there was Luc, that time he'd stolen into her bedroom to say goodbye. It had seemed such a sacred occasion that she hadn't felt like a sinner at the time. Here, she did.

“Feeling better now?” Picasso asked, glancing at her with his piercing, all-seeing dark eyes.

Ondine ducked her head. Did it show, the strange arousal she felt? Could he sense it?

“Too tight?” he inquired, clasping her leg and making her bend her knee to test it.

Did she imagine it, or was he deliberately holding his warm paw against the inside of her thigh, sliding his hand up just a little, just to tease, as he adjusted the bandage? Ondine was now acutely aware of the physical presence of this male creature who was sitting so close with his shirt unbuttoned.

“It's all right,” she said hastily. Calmly he packed up the first-aid kit and went out again. She glanced about the kitchen to recover her bearings, and something caught her eye. Upside-down in the drainboard by the sink was her mother's long-lost pink-and-blue pitcher, looking all washed and dried!

In fact, the kitchen was suspiciously neat and tidy after a week without Ondine's care. She felt sure another woman had been here. “A man just wouldn't bother to wash up this much,” she reasoned. This could be a feminine warning to Ondine:
Get off my turf, take your pitcher and stay away from my man!

“Fine,” she thought, relieved to have it back. She'd bring it home to her mother today.

Picasso returned and glanced at the metal hamper. Ondine cried out apologetically, “Oh,
Patron,
your lunch must be ruined! I'll go home and make you another one!”

He waved her off and opened the hamper, peering inside. “Let's see what we've got here,” he said calmly, pulling out each item and laying it on the table. Sauce had sloshed over some containers.

“It's
coq au vin,
” Ondine wailed, then immediately struggled to get a grip on herself. She formed her apology in Spanish.
“Perdóneme para la inconveniencia,”
she murmured.

The effect of unexpectedly hearing his native tongue was immediate. Picasso's features revealed a sudden, childlike astonishment, then softened into the gentlest, warmest, most benevolent expression she'd ever seen on his extraordinary face. Clearly she had touched him.

“Don't worry,
está muy bien,
” Picasso responded. He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the sauce and tasted it. “Mmm. Still warm,” he announced with a broad smile. He got a dish and ladle from the shelf, and filled his plate as if he were at a buffet. “Ah, the noble cock,” he said with mock regret as he spooned up the meat. “When he can no longer service the hens, he gets thrown into the pot!”

He peered at Ondine interestedly. “Did you break his neck and drain his blood for the sauce yourself?” he asked eagerly.

“My mother did,” she answered truthfully.

“Well, anyway, it's very good,” he said with relish.

Ondine smiled uncertainly, wondering where he wanted her to wait while he ate. She normally stayed in the kitchen—but now he settled himself right here at this table instead of the dining room.

Picasso sensed her quandary. “Why don't you go upstairs and dry your hair? There's a comb and towels in the bathroom,” he said with a vague wave. “Then you can look at the pictures in my studio. Women always like to have opinions about things they know nothing about. Every housewife secretly thinks she's a genius.” He flicked his wrist and put his hand to his chin, miming a lady frowning critically to assess a painting. “Hmmm, it's very
interesting,
” he said in a high-pitched voice, “but is it
art
?”